


The Stark That Fell

by Robb Stark (RyloKen)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And By Love I Mean Fuck, Catelyn Starks Legendary Hate For Bastards, Easter Egg Foreshadowing, Explicit Tag Just To Be Safe, F/M, Forbidden Love, Fucking, Good Mood Robb Stark, Half-Sibling Incest, Happy Ending, Happy Robb Stark, Happy Sex, He Defies Your Rules Catelyn, He Regrets Nothing, He'll Love His Bastard Sister If He Wants To, How Do I Tag, I'm tagging wrong, Jon Snow has a Twin, Marking, Oral Sex, Probably Not Explicit Though, Robb Stark Is Doing Her, Robb Stark Knows How To Love, Robb Stark is a Gift, Sort Of, Swearing, but also love, if you know what i mean, protect him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 08:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16426346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyloKen/pseuds/Robb%20Stark
Summary: Robb Stark is many things, but easily deterred is not one of them.When his mother locks his lady in a tower, he does what any man in love does; he climbs the damn tower.And even if there's a high chance he'll fall to his death, the reward for hisstupiditybraveryis well worth the risk.Catelyn Stark might hate Ned Stark's bastards, but Robb?He's in love with one of them.





	The Stark That Fell

 

He was going to die.

He was mad, and he was going to die.

He paused in his movements, his slow climb, and took a few deep and calming breaths. He refused to look down, refused to see just how far the fall was if he were to slip and drop.

He hoped he wouldn’t.

They’d sing songs about him, the fool Stark who fell to his death from a tower he shouldn’t have been climbing while going for a girl he shouldn’t have been trying to go for.

Hopefully no one would know _why_ he was going for her, but he was sure some southern twat would make it up and put it in rhyme and everyone would get a good laugh.

It’d be true, of course, but he’d be too dead to confirm or deny such things.

Still, the thought of being known as _The Stark That Slipped_ was embarrassing enough that he kept his movements slow and precise. He never moved up until he was sure his footing was placed perfectly.

And if he did fall, well, the best he could hope for was that he broke his legs or maybe even his back. Losing the use of his legs wouldn’t be too bad if he could still fuck, and gods he hoped he could still fuck.

A curious question for Maester Luwin; he’d be sure to ask.

He took another cautious step up and smiled.

It was worth it, climbing the high tower and defying his mother’s edict. He really didn’t understand why she was the way she was, always spitting like a rabid animal whenever she laid sight on the younger woman – but then maybe he was biased, he _was_ fucking that younger woman after all.

He laughed under his breath, imagined that future famed song and took another step up.

Maybe they’d sing songs about him anyway. _The_ _Stark That Slipped_ would become something more unsavoury, something he had no doubt he’d probably have to feel ashamed about, but he wouldn’t.

He stepped up again.

He didn’t feel shame, he didn’t feel sickened or concerned for his sanity; he felt fine, he felt good.

He pulled himself up onto a smooth lip of stone and paused to take a few more breaths.

Yes, he felt good, but when he finished this climb, when he wasn’t one wrong step away from dying or potentially losing the ability to fuck, he’d feel even better.

His lady was at the top of that damned tower, locked away because she’d stared too long at the wrong person and in the sight-lines of a worse someone.

Or was it that she simply existed?

Probably both.

He continued his climb.

He’d lost track of his mothers’ grievances, and frankly had no more shits to give about her problems.

It was always this wrong doing or that wrong saying or someone breathing the same northern air too closely to whomever she deemed _better_.

Really, his mother was mad.

He laughed, the husky sound being carried away on a gust a winter wind that turned the sweat on the back of his neck cold.

His mother was mad and clearly, so was he.

 _Probably a Tully thing_ , he pondered and pulled himself higher up the stone structure.

He paused, turned his head against the whispering winds and smiled as her songs reached his ears.

She had a beautiful voice, whether she was singing or reading or hurling scandalising abuse at whomever deserved it most.

Usually Theon.

She had a beautiful voice, especially when she was writhing underneath him, her fingers in his hair and her knees pressed tight against his waist.

He had to stop himself from thinking such things or he’d fall and die or lose the ability to bed her and then the climb would have been for nothing.

He exhaled and stepped up another stone.

He was close now, could hear her words perfectly. She sang of dragons and dragon riders, of wolves that never bowed and grew taller than horses and ate men by the dozens.

A grim lass, his lady.

He grinned and took another step up.

Her song turned, became something bawdy and full of tits and strong lads and weeks spent walking funny.

Mother would be scandalised!

He laughed and shook his head.

There was a loud curse above him, the tavern song cut off, and not a moment after he’d looked up, some offending object went flying out the window and into the night.

He watched it whirl passed him but refused to watch it hit the ground; he didn’t need to see that.

The cursing turned into disgruntled arguing and he wondered, for just a moment, if she already had company.

When no one replied to her voiced questions of complaint, he pushed onwards and accepted that she was mad too.

His lady, she was everything.

She was kind and gentle, she was strong and loyal, she was quiet and withdrawn, but she was also loud and vicious when she needed to be.

She was beautiful and alluring, a temptation he’d fallen for a long time ago, and happily so.

He was at his happiest cradled between her pale thighs, but maybe that was every mans happiest place to be, between the thighs of a perfect woman.

He finally got his hands on the ledge of the window and after making sure his grip was firm, he pulled himself up and slipped into the tower.

He was exhausted, and really, he was going to have a talk to his mother about choosing this damned tower out of all the ones they had access to.

And they were going to talk about that damned guard she’d had placed at the door to the stairs too – he was an ugly fellow, and rude.

An ugly guard that had told him to piss off as if he wasn’t the heir to fucking Winterfell.

What a twat.

He sucked in a heavy breath, bent over his knees as sweat dripped from his brow and his curls and down the length of his spine.

He needed a bath.

He exhaled shakily and straightened, danced his eyes around the room and found his lady aggressively going at her hair with a brush.

He loved her hair, a wave of silk the colour of ravens’ wings and just as soft. It shone at all times, thick and healthy and down to the backs of her knees.

He felt like he was intruding, like watching her manage one of her best features was some mystery he should simply never know about.

 _Oh well_ , he thought, _the cat was out of the bag_.

“ _Fucking cunt!_ ”

Robb snorted, and then ducked when she whipped around and hurled her brush at him. It smacked the stone wall behind his head and clattered to the floor, and was soon forgotten as their eyes locked across the small room.

Gods, but she was beautiful.

And angry, but still.

Those eyes of hers, something like a storm at full rage, narrowed suspiciously on him and her scowl turned sceptical.

“How did you get in here?”

He grinned, all teeth and shining blue eyes and waved a hand through the air. “Blood magic.”

Her laughter was like soft music or the gentle flow of a bubbling brook. It stirred fire in his belly, as it always did, and he stepped forward, stepped again and kept going until he was standing over her and staring down into those violet eyes.

There was something there, something that turned her smile shy, her playfulness nervous but not uncomfortable. She was eager, wanting, she always was, but something about him frightened her in the best ways and he knew it.

He saw it every time he got too close.

She was aware of him in some next level way, aware of the wolf that prowled in his blood.

She was a wolf too, but she was also something else, something neither of them knew and possibly never would.

He didn’t care what other sigil she might be, what other houses blood flowered through her veins, if another houses blood did at all.

She was his, no matter who her mother was.

She was all his.

And he climbed a damned tower because of it.

Maybe he wasn’t _The Stark That Slipped_ , but he was certainly _The Stark That Fell._

He lifted his hand, heard her shaky inhale as he smoothed his palm over her hair and down; silky-soft, as it always was.

Heat turned the pale of her cheeks rosy, and he fell further.

It was a soft kiss, at first, hesitant and gentle and broken by more shaky breaths as they looked into each other’s eyes and asked questions, gave answers, without ever voicing words at all.

They had done this before, so many times he’d lost count, but still they hesitated. It was never about what they were doing, neither of them cared about the supposed wrongness of what was between them, but it was a comfort, a reassurance.

It was a way out.

And one that neither of them ever took.

The next kiss was desperate, eyes closed as the fire built, as the passion grew and swept them both up in a tangle of heat and need and breathy gasps.

He loved those little gasps she made.

He lived for them.

The climb would be worth it for those sounds alone, but he wanted more; more sounds, more touch, more of her pale skin on show and pressed against him.

Her dress, something soft and meant for sleeping in, tore when he went at it, the seams giving and falling away from her torso as he pushed and pulled and then cupped a full breast in his palm.

She was warm, always so warm, and so, so receptive.

She kissed as he kissed, moved as he moved; she went with him when he straightened, his hand in her hair and his tongue in her mouth.

She tasted of winter snows and the smoky warmth of a hearth left to simmer overnight.

She tasted of home.

He groaned when her fingers, elegant and slender and tipped with long nails, went to the belt at his hips and worked it loose.

His blood heated, howled in his ears as he shoved the last remnants of her dress down to her wide hips and away. It pooled at her feet and was forgotten as she ripped the laces of his breeches open and slipped her hand inside.

He shivered and groaned into her mouth, and swallowed down the sound of her mewl when she found him hard.

There was something almost innocent in the way she touched him, the way her lashes fluttered and her breath shook as she curled her fingers around his cock and drew music from the depths of his very soul.

She knew how to play him, how to tease him, how to make him _feel_.

His heart thumped a harsh tattoo in the cage of his chest and skipped a beat as she nipped his mouth and seemingly purred.

Maybe she was a cat.

The thought left him when she moved her kisses to his throat, to his collarbone, to his chest.

Thought left him altogether when she dropped to her knees and took his pants with her.

His hand never left her hair, his eyes never left hers.

There was a storm there, something darkening as she teased him, as she took him deep and sang her song around his cock.

He shivered and turned his hand to a fist, pulled a keen from her throat and groaned as it rippled over him.

He was hers, no matter that she let him take the lead, no matter that he wore the pants.

He pulled her away, laughed when she whined and looked at him with stars in her eyes and a pout on her swollen lips.

He pulled her to her feet and off of them. Her ankles locked behind his back as his hands moved to her hips, to her well-formed backside.

He smoothed his palms over her as he kissed her, as he licked into the warmth of her mouth, and then chuckled when she squealed as he smacked his palm to her arse and gripped the sting after.

He carried her to the bed, and paused long enough at the sight of it that she smiled sheepishly and gave a nervous laugh.

It was barely more than a pile of furs tossed over an old cot – he certainly hoped it was sturdy.

They shared a look, a look that lasted barely longer than a second, and both decided to risk it.

He laid her out on the _not-quite-a-bed-but-close-enough_ and went with her, pressed her into the furs and groaned when he felt the wet-hot of her cunt press up against his twitching cock.

Gods, but he needed her.

He wanted inside her, no more delays, no more waiting, but he didn’t climb the fucking tower walls just to throw it away on one rough tumble and a pleasant sleep after.

He wanted to steep himself in her, wanted to hear his name as it whispered passed her lips, as it grew as her pleasure grew.

He wanted to taste her, and so he did.

There was something gentle in the way she touched him as he worked his kisses down her body, something he had no name for as he nipped and suckled at her breasts and left her nipples hardened from his touch and the cold of the towers air.

He filled his palm with her left breast as he sucked bruises into her ribs, moved his hands to her hips as he flicked his tongue into the well of her belly and laughed huskily when she shivered and keened.

She wiggled like an excited kitten when he hugged her thighs, and sang like an exotic songbird when he kissed her where she was warmest, where she was wettest, where he would happily spend the rest of his life.

He would have been okay with suffocating right there with his tongue buried inside her, and the gods knew she tried when she clamped her thighs around his ears and lost herself in a storm of writhing laughter and lust.

He didn’t think there was anything better than the sounds she made, or the way she tasted as she fell.

She curled around him, fingers digging into his hair as he pushed her so far into pleasure he wondered if she’d stay there forever.

He’d be happy with that.

He knew they both would.

But he still pulled away, and when she mewled, a sated feline with her stormy eyes and her wildly racing heart, he grinned.

He grinned, and then he kissed her.

He kissed her, and then he took her.

He’d lied; there was something better than her sounds, than her taste. Better was being buried inside of her, better was watching that storm roll into the back of her head when he filled her full of himself, when he pressed so deep there was no space left between them.

Certainly no space left for the gods, old or new or drowned or otherwise.

He longed for this and never grew tired of it; watching her come undone as he filled her over and over never grew old.

The _not-a-bed_ creaked as they moved, and threatened to break entirely when he drove so hard into her the wood of its frame slammed against the stonewall.

He buried his face beside hers, breathed each breath against her neck as he kissed and nipped at her throat until the pale had turned pink and then grew into dark red.

Sweat glistened on both of them, and he groaned as the cool air washed over his back and soothed the burn left behind by her dragging claws.

They marked each other, took and gave, and he lost himself in the feeling of her shaking apart around him, lost himself in the rippling shudder of her body coming undone.

He spilled into her, buried so deep he kissed her womb, and he spilled until his vision went spotty and his ears were filled with no sound but the wild thrum of his own heartbeat.

She held him, as she always did, and supported him until he came back, until he no longer threatened to collapse and crush her.

He knew she wouldn’t mind if he did, if he did slump over her and pant roughly against her chest, but there was something in him that didn’t want that, that didn’t want her to know the discomfort of breaths that shortened with each new exhale.

He wanted the closeness, and he knew she did too, but not like that.

So he did what he always did; he slipped his arm around her back and rolled. He took her with him, held her close as he settled on his back with her on top and cradled in his arms.

She was so _warm_.

He smiled as he stroked a hand down her back, as he threaded his fingers through her long locks of midnight silk and held her close as she settled herself against him.

He held her, and hummed as she ghosted kisses across his chest, her lips pressing firmer over his heart.

His hum turned to a groan when she shifted her hips, when she tightened her walls around him and coaxed him back for more.

It never took much, her need for him never going unanswered as he always rose to give her what she wanted.

Of course, the _not-really-a-damned-bed-at-all_ decide then, when she rose above him and settled his hands on her hips to guide her every movement, was the best time to give.

They both went down with a shout not unlike the squawking of a flock of startled ravens.

It didn’t really stop them though, not much did, and they fucked amongst the wreckage of the _no-longer-a-not-bed_.

He spilled again inside of her, and grinned when she kept herself settled close, thighs spread on either side of his hips so that he could stay buried deep as long as possible.

He belonged there, inside of her.

They dozed, close and warm and happy.

And then he laughed when the realisation dawned on him; he was going to have to climb back down the tower.

He couldn’t very well use the stairs, stairs that led to a door guarded on the outside by a twat guard.

How would he explain?

He laughed more and pressed an affectionate kiss to the crown of her head, and smiled when she shifted in her sleep and nuzzled him.

No, his mother hated her enough.

The gods only knew what Catelyn Stark would do if she ever found out her son, her precious Robb, was fucking his bastard sister.

Westeros would probably cease to exist if she ever found out just how far he’d gone; because it wasn’t just fucking for him, wasn’t just touch and comfort and the rush of being so deep in the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen that he thought he’d lose himself entirely.

No, it was more than that.

Robb was in love, and that, that was something worth dying for.

Even if he did end up the subject of a terrible song.

 _The Stark That Fell_.

He'd be happy with that.


End file.
